


It Would Be So Dark and Cold

by Thetruehamsolo



Series: Johnlock One-Shots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Dimensions, Angst, Boarding School, Cuddling, Depression, Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied Casual Sex, Implied Drug Use, M/M, Past Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenlock, implied cutting, sleeping, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetruehamsolo/pseuds/Thetruehamsolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wonders what life would be like without him. Then he meets the person Sherlock would be without two years of their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Would Be So Dark and Cold

John got out of the shower and glared at his reflection, all five foot four of it, dripping wet, skin scrubbed raw. He hated all of it. The coarseness of his hair, the pudge around his middle that refused to leave, even with his four-times-a-week athletics training, the pubic hair that curled around his flaccid cock, coarse too and uncomfortably dark in comparison to the rest of his hair. His gaze dropped lower to take in his legs. How he hated his legs (and he was aware how he sounded like a teenage girl when he thought that). They were tanned from mid-thigh down, and milky pale above, the stark tanline due to the running shorts and hours spent out of doors. His knees were horribly scarred, from various falls he'd had over the years. He was hardly a clumsy person, but on a muddy rugby pitch when one tries to change direction and there happens to be an unfortunately placed sharp stone, just jutting up out of the grass, a nasty cut was hardly avoidable.  
  
He shuddered at the memory and then winced in pain as the part of his body of which he always tried to forget the existence made itself known. Slowly his gaze lifted to the reflection of the ugly scar on his left shoulder. It was the exit wound of a bullet though it looked more like a rosette of shame and guilt, pinned on him for all the world to know what he'd 'won'. People had told him how lucky he was. Some had even likened him to Batman, because how could they possibly imagine how it would feel to watch your parents die beside you and then have the _fucker_ miss when it came to shooting you?  
  
John often wished he'd died that day. He wished he didn't have to live with his wobbly old grandmother in Kent. He wished he didn't have to see his sister Harry drink herself into a slumber almost every night because she didn't have the strength to kill herself. He wished that his grandmother hadn't shipped him off to Eton and Harry to the London townhouse because she had no idea how to deal with grieving children.  
  
Two years after the accident, John was not sleeping any easier as on the first night. When he did, his mind was a battlefield. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the school guidance counselor had said to him. Special case that needed outside help, the school guidance counselor had said to the principal. Then he'd started seeing Ella, sitting in stony silence with her for an hour every Tuesday afternoon. He lied to the guidance counselor and told her it was helping because Tuesday afternoon was when he was supposed to have P.E. and he didn't want his classmates to see him attempt to play sport. He didn't want to try and fail at the one thing he'd been so good at before. He refused to meet his reflection's eyes, terrified to see the tears there. He missed rugby, lacrosse, even soccer. All he had left was running. He ran a lot and fast, most mornings before school. As if his life was a bear lumbering after him and sprinting would help him escape. But he couldn't run forever. The bear always caught up sooner or later and devoured him.  
  
He shivered and pulled a towel from the back of the door to dry himself off. He pulled on his boxers and pyjama bottoms and glanced at the mirror once more (he had hated sleeping shirtless before, but now he always felt trapped if he woke up after a nightmare wearing anything on his upper half. His roommate didn't seem to mind).  
  
His roommate. John's heart sank at the thought of the boy on the other side of that door. Gorgeous and utterly brilliant, Sherlock Holmes had been the object of John's affections for the last two years. John was certain Sherlock knew; Sherlock knew everything, the smart bastard, and never let John forget it, but he never mentioned it so John didn't either. It was easier that way. Their weird semblance of friendship was all either of them had; Sherlock spent most of his time alone locked in a disused lab on the third floor of the school and John spent most of his, also alone, on the running track. Sherlock was the only one in the school who acknowledged John's existence and even then, John doubted the boy would miss him if he were to... find a permanent home for himself. Six feet under.  
  
John shook the thought away as best as he could and left the bathroom. Their room was dark and stuffy and, from the light of the moon glowing through the thin green curtains, John could just about see Sherlock sprawled out across the sheets. He smiled to himself. It had been days since Sherlock had actually slept. He longed to curl up by his side and inhale his sweet smell.  
  
The figure on the bed began to talk.  
  
"Come back here, Victor, before my arse closes up again. One round is not payment enough for the quality of that last batch."  
  
John froze. The voice sounded so... Sherlockian, so beautifully baritone, so pompously posh. But then, it was _so_ different, in ways John could not begin to explain.  
  
"Victor? Victor Trevor? Why would you think Victor Trevor is in our bathroom?" He asked cautiously.  
  
The figure - Sherlock, it had to be - sat up in bed instantly, as if shocked with electricity. "He's washing my cum out of his hair." Sherlock said indifferently, turning his head and John wished it weren't too dark to see his facial expressions. "Wait, _our_ bathroom?"  
  
"Yes, idiot. The bathroom we share. You can't seriously have forgotten you have a roommate."  
  
"I don't have a roommate."  
  
"Yes, you do. It's me. John Watson."  
  
"The name rings a bell."  
  
"Of course it does, I'm your bloody roommate."  
  
"There is no John Watson at this school, the name is familiar from somewhere else."  
  
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock -" John began before he was cut off.  
  
"Do you want proof that I don't have a roommate?" The taller teen asked. "Here." He turned on the lamp on his bedside table, setting the room on fire with its rich warm glow.  
  
John's bed had no sheets on it; simply a worn out mattress. His chest of drawers had none of his books on it. He walked slowly towards his wardrobe, opening it and finding nothing but a few of Sherlock's suits in it.  
  
"This isn't funny, Sherlock."  
  
"I'm not trying to be."  
  
John could tell Sherlock wasn't lying, but he didn't understand. He sat on the bed that should have been his. "I don't -" He began. Sherlock cut him off again.  
  
"John Watson!" He exclaimed. "I knew I knew the name from somewhere." He leapt out of bed, presumably forgetting he was naked (though it was nothing John hadn't seen before), and began rummaging in a drawer. He pulled out a folder and opened it, flicking through some pages before setting it on John's lap with a triumphant 'Aha!'  
  
It was a newspaper clipping from two years before. The date of John's parents' murder was scrawled across the top in Sherlock's familiar but alien script. There was something off about that too, and John's gut twisted for more than one reason as he read on.  
  
 _ **15 July 2012**_  
 _Late last night, at 2am, in Picadilly Circus, the infamous Chill-Impersonator struck again. His victims, later identified by a family member as George (43), Henrietta (40) and John (15) Watson, were found four hours after their death by -"_  
  
John stopped reading. "I'm dead?" The relief he'd always imagined accompanying that realisation never came. He felt cold and sick with dread.  
  
"Yes, you are. So why were you in my bathroom?"  
  
John looked up at Sherlock, studying him for the first time, and frowned deeply. The curls he adored so much were gone, sheared off, the remaining hair spiked up and dyed blood-red. His eyes were sunken and hollow with dark bags beneath them and the jawline that Sherlock prided in keeping perfectly clean-shaven was frosted with a thin gracing of stubble.  
  
"I don't think I belong here."  
  
"Well, clearly not. You're dead."  
  
John shook his head. "That's not what I meant."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, before he stopped and looked at John.  
  
"You're not dead."  
  
"No."  
  
"You think you're my roommate."  
  
"I am. Well, not _this_ you, apparently. A different you."  
  
"I was coming to the same conclusion."  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
“Do you solve these crimes?”  
  
Sherlock looked up, confused.  
  
“Ones like my… death?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “The police refuse to let me actually help when I’m high but I can usually convince them to give me cold case files or if I come to any conclusions just by reading the paper I contact them.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Your Sherlock doesn’t solve crimes then.”  
  
“No. He spends a lot of time in the third floor lab. The disused one. But I can’t imagine he’d turn down a cold case if I got him one.”  
  
“Our birthday is coming up soon.”  
  
“It is?” John realised then that Sherlock had never told him when his birthday was. But then, for that matter, John had never mentioned his to Sherlock either.  
  
“The sixth of May. I don’t like to celebrate it. Your Sherlock mustn’t either.”  
  
“Clearly not, but I should know the date at least.” John said. There was venom in his tone, though he was more mad at himself than anyone else.  
  
Sherlock clearly didn’t understand that. He shrunk away from John.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. No, I… I’m sorry. I was just mad at myself.” The shorter boy insisted. He remembered when the Sherlock he lived with had been like this. Now that he had something to compare him to, it suddenly occurred to John how much his Sherlock had changed over the past two years because of their odd friendship.  
  
Sherlock nodded shakily and sat down on his bed, across from John.  
  
“How long have you known him?”  
  
“Two years. I moved to Eton after my parents… you know.” The word ‘died’ still hurt, illogically.  
  
“You want to be a doctor. You’d be very useful to the Work, you know. That is, if your Sherlock likes detective work.”  
  
“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t. He’s always going on about how useless the police are and how he could do it so much better.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “That sounds like me.”  
  
“How did you know I want to be a doctor?”  
  
“Lucky guess.”  
  
“You never guess.”  
  
“You know me too well.”  
  
“Too well?”  
  
The flirting was so easy, so familiar. It wasn’t until John looked up and saw Sherlock that he realised that wasn’t still at home.  
  
“You want to know how I knew?”  
  
John nodded. “Always.”  
  
Sherlock faltered, like he’d never been allowed to show off this much before. He reminded John of the fourteen-year-old he’d met two years ago - naive, hated and so alone - and his heart clenched.  
  
“There’s an ink smudge all along your left hand, like you’ve been taking a lot of notes that you’re going to rewrite later so you don’t care that they’re a little messy. Other than that your hands are in excellent condition, like you’re going to be judged on them. There’s a little blood under one fingernail, probably not yours - actually, probably mine, or at least your Sherlock’s, if I know how often I injure myself. There’s a faint remnant of ink on your right hand; all the bones are circled and labelled like you were learning them for a test. And then of course, from what happened to your parents, you’d want to be a doctor so you can save anyone and everyone you can.”  
  
John smiled softly. "My brilliant genius." He said, more instinctively than anything else.  
  
Sherlock looked at him, shocked at the compliment.  
  
“Sorry.” John mumbled.  
  
“Do you… Do you always talk to your Sherlock like that?”  
  
 _ **My** Sherlock_ , John thought to himself, flushing slightly. “Yes, I do.” He said, as if the answer was obvious.  
  
"He’s so lucky to have a boyfriend like you." Sherlock sighed.  
  
"Oh. No. We're not. No." John spluttered.  
  
"But you love him."  
  
"Yes, I do. But you don't - _he_ doesn't - love me back."  
  
Sherlock smiled softly through the gloom. It was a smile John had never seen before, soft and sad, hopeful and hopeless all at once. "I seriously doubt that."  
  
Silence stretched on for a moment.  
  
"So why Trevor? I mean, my Sherlock can't stand him.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Neither can I, but he has a skillful cock and sex _is_ the easiest payment for the drugs."  
  
John said nothing. There was nothing to say.  
  
"Will you stay with me a while?" Sherlock asked softly. "I know you have to get back your universe, to your Sherlock, but could you stay with me until I fall asleep? I'd like to be held by someone who loves me just once."  
  
John nodded, his heart breaking. He knew he couldn't stay here long. This wasn't his Sherlock, the Sherlock that he'd saved, the Sherlock that might love him back. But a while longer couldn't hurt.  
  
"If you put some pants on." He said, smiling gently.  
  
Sherlock groaned and fished in his bedside drawer for a pair of boxers, pulling them on in one quick motion. He settled in the bed and John slid in behind him, arms curling around the taller boy's pale chest more like a protective dish cloth covering him than a big spoon. Sherlock sighed against him and John nuzzled into his neck.  
  
He didn't smell like his Sherlock, like Old Spice shampoo, like musty chemicals, like home. He smelled harshly of drugs, and alcohol and tobacco smoke and sex and even hair dye, but underneath all that there was a familiar unnameable scent and John clung to that beautiful aroma.  
  
Sherlock fell asleep quickly and John pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder before he slipped away. It killed him to leave but he remembered his own Sherlock back home, lonely and waiting for him. He headed into the bathroom, not really knowing where else he could go and stepped back into the shower so he wouldn't smell of Other Sherlock. He ignored the blood-crusted razor-blade by the bathroom sink. _It's not to late to help my Sherlock, to save the man I love, the man who needs me, from this path_ , he told himself and he washed away all evidence of his odd trip. He stepped out of the shower, dried himself off while pointedly avoiding eye contact with his mirror, and brushed his teeth with his own toothbrush (the fact that his toothbrush was there had to be a good sign, right?).  
  
He stepped out of the bathroom and into the gloom of a familiar version of the same room he'd been all night. His raven-haired love was sprawled across the bed, awake and thinking with his hands up at his perfect lips.  
  
"That was a long shower." The teen observed and John almost cried at how undamaged that voice sounded.  
  
"Yes. I got a bit distracted."  
  
Sherlock looked him up and down. "You weren't masturbating."  
  
John flushed. "No, you brilliant sod. I was thinking."  
  
"Probably about an abundance of boring things and only one at a time."  
  
John could almost hear the Sherlock's blush in his voice at John's praise.  
  
"About you, actually."  
  
John knew Sherlock well enough to know that he was forcing himself to not react.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What were you thinking about?"  
  
It was now or never. John found himself walking over to Sherlock's bed.  
  
"How cold your bed must be with no one to share it with. May I?" He asked, lifting up one corner of the duvet.  
  
Sherlock nodded, barely breathing.  
  
John slid in beside him.  
  
"I'm not cold."  
  
"Neither am I." John countered, smiling softly.  
  
Sherlock shifted closer to John in the silence until they were chest to chest, knee to knee, nose to nose.  
  
John leaned in to kiss Sherlock, eyes fluttering closed.  
  
“John?” The aggravating taller teen asked in a whisper, just before their lips could meet.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
  
“Why tonight?”  
  
“I…” John didn’t know how to respond. “I had a bit of an epiphany in the shower. Someone told me to stop being so blind earlier and I thought about it. A lot. I figured… as much as I had to lose, I had so much more to gain.”  
  
“Only took you two years.”  
  
“Shut up, you daft git, you never did anything either.”  
  
Sherlock laughed. And then John laughed and then both of them laughed until they weren’t laughing anymore.  
  
“You can kiss me now, if you like.”  
  
“Will you stop me again?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
John chuckled. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock, his eyes fluttering shut.  
  
“John?” Sherlock asked in a whisper, just before their lips could meet.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” John said, grinning in the darkness.  
  
“I am quite in love with you.”  
  
“I love you too, you brilliant bastard.” John murmured, finally - _finally _\- closing the gap between their lips.__

**Author's Note:**

> I took a bit of artistic license with Sherlock’s birthday because I didn’t want it to be over the school’s Christmas holidays.
> 
> The Chill-Impersonator is the nickname for the guy who killed John's parents because Joe Chill killed Batman's parents.
> 
> Still looking for a beta for my next work. Email me at [qcumberbatch5@gmail.com](mailto:qcumberbatch5@gmail.com) or message my tumblr [thelizlanganblog](http://thelizlanganblog.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


End file.
